


The Dancing Bare

by teacuphuman



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), The Dark Knight Rises
Genre: Crack, John can't catch a break, M/M, Seriously it's total crack, Stripper fic, Stripper!Bane, Undercover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2018-11-21 21:10:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11365680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacuphuman/pseuds/teacuphuman
Summary: John is undercover for the GPD at a gay strip club. Seriously.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [teacuphuman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacuphuman/gifts).



> It's my birthday and I wanted Stripper!Bane crack, so I wrote it. I offer no apologies.

John nursed his beer and tried not to look like he was casing the joint. He’d been on the undercover squad with Gotham PD for six months, but this was the first time he’d been sent out in the field. They’d received an anonymous tip that Bane himself, successor of Ra’s al Ghul and leader of Gotham’s most dangerous up-and-coming gang of thugs, The League of Shadows, was running weapons out of the backdoor of a gay strip club. John had to hand it to them, Gotham PD would never have thought to look here on their own. 

 

In fact, if it hadn’t been for the dramatic, raspy voicemail left on John’s phone, VICE would still be chasing their tails in the Narrows, trying to sniff out The League’s rumoured gambling den. That voicemail was also the reason John was finally getting his chance to prove himself. He wouldn’t say that Batman was a close, personal friend or anything, but spending time with Gordon certainly hadn’t hurt his chances at getting in good with the Dark Knight, who just happened to leave helpful tips on John’s phone from time to time.

 

So now he was sitting in a corner booth of The Dancing Bare, watching for any sign of League members. His partner, Suarez, was on the other side of the curved booth, bobbing his head to the music and watching the guy writhing on stage.

 

“How often do you think these guys work out?” Suarez asked, his mouth dropping open as the stripper flipped himself upside down on the pole.

 

“I dunno, every day?” John was busy watching the bus boy, a kid who didn’t look old enough to be in a strip club, let alone an employee. There was a swatch of red peeking out from under his apron, and he kept wiping down tables that weren’t dirty.

 

“Yeah, but like, they need a rest day like everybody else, right? I mean, even a three minute performance would get their heart rates up enough to qualify as a work out, so does that count as a rest day, or do they still work out before coming to work?”

 

John stared at Suarez, confused. “Dude, what the fuck are you talking about?”

 

“Well, these guys are ripped! I work out five days a week and I run every morning. I sure as hell don’t look like that. Sheila would fucking love it if I did, though. Think if I buy a lap dance I can get one of them to give me some tips?”

 

John looked at the guy on stage, who was now gathering his clothing and tips, and blowing kisses to the patrons in the first row. “Okay, but you don’t wanna carry all that muscle around.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because there’s no way you could chase down a perp like the one we took down last week, with thirty extra pounds on your frame.”

 

“Okay, but that guy was like, superhuman, or something. Dude should have been in the Olympics,” Suarez argued.

 

John snorted. “You wouldn’t even be able to catch me if you were that jacked.”

 

Suarez grinned. “And you’re slow as fuck.”

 

“Fuck you,” John laughed and took another swig of beer.

 

The song changed and the DJ’s smooth voice introduced the next performer. John didn’t catch the name, but the music blaring out of the speakers was easily identifiable as not something he would have picked for getting naked to. It was loud, harsh, and fast, and John wondered if the guy stepping onto the stage was trying to beat a stripping record or something. 

 

John choked on his beer when he saw the guy’s mask. He squinted across the bar through the tears in his eyes, taking in the boots, the gloves, the cape, and even the fucking utility belt before he felt let his jaw drop.

 

“Jesus fuck, that’s Batman,” he said.

 

“No, that’s a stripper dressed up like Batman. Authentic costume, though, bet it cost a fortune. Hey, how much you think a guy could make at a place like this? I mean, it’s a Wednesday night, but it’s pretty busy.” 

 

“You thinking of taking up a hobby?” John asked distantly, not listening to the response because he knew Batman, hell, he knew Bruce Wayne, and the guy up on stage was definitely him.

 

“John, you okay?” Suarez asked, leaning in close. “You like something you see? Because if you want to slip into the back for a dance, I won’t tell. Seriously, man, you haven’t gotten any in forever.”

 

“You’re a gentleman and a scholar, Suarez,” John told him, sliding out of the booth. He had to figure out what the hell Batman was doing here when he’d tipped off the GPD in the first place. John paused on his way to the bar, frowning as Bruce gyrated his way across the stage. Jesus, the guy  _ could not _ dance. His rhythm was jerky, and his cape got caught under his foot when he tried to take it off.

 

“Hey,” John called for the bartender. “Who do I see about a private dance?”

 

The bartender pointed to a skinny guy standing by the door back behind the stage. John made his way over, wincing when Batman managed to snap his own glove against his crotch while trying to get it off. Did they not audition people at all here?

 

The man at the door watched John approach with sleepy eyes. Like the busboy, he too had a strip of red fabric hidden under his tight, black shirt. John caught a glimpse of it before the man shifted to further block the door.

 

“Hi, um, they said you’re the guy to talk to about some time with the stage candy.” John cringed internally, but the guy smirked. 

 

“You would like to purchase a private room?” The guy looked John over, assessing.

 

“Ah, yeah,” John threw his thumb over his shoulder. “With the big guy.”

 

The man raised an eyebrow and looked over John’s shoulder. The song had ended and what little clapping there had been had died down. 

 

“Two hundred for 30 minutes.”

 

“Are you serious? That’s insane,” John protested.

 

The man shrugged. “He’s popular.”

 

John grumbled, but pulled out his wallet. Wayne was so reimbursing him for this. He handed over the cash and the man pushed open the door.

 

“Room seven. He’ll be a few minutes, feel free to partake of the free champagne,” the man told him, voice dry and flat.

 

“Yeah, thanks.” 

 

The corridor was long and narrow, doors and wall painted black, with shiny gold numbers on them. Number Seven was at the end and inside John found a small room, more tastefully decorated than he’d expected. The walls were papered in shiny gold and black swirls and the black leather couch looked new and clean. There were mirrors on every wall, and a small table with an ice bucket and two glasses. John took the bottle out of the bucket and pretended he knew what the label meant, just in case anyone was watching on the other side of those mirrors. 

 

It hit him then that Wayne was probably going to have to give him an actual lap dance to sell their cover. John cringed. No way was he going to be able to keep a straight face through the uncoordinated attempts of Batman giving him a lap dance. Fuck it, he thought, and popped the cork on the champagne, no way was he getting through this sober. He downed a full glass, the bubbles tingling down his throat and up his nose, making him snort and cough. 

 

He was halfway through a third serving when the door opened. He turned and nearly dropped the glass in shock. Standing in the doorway, dressed in a deep-v, cut-out unitard, was Bane.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take heed of the rating change! Things are about to get messy!

John sputters and champagne dribbles out of his mouth and down his chin. He wipes it away with the back of his hand as Bane closes the door. Shit,  _ shit _ , he is so busted. The only hope he has now is that Suarez makes it out okay. Because there is no non-lethal scenario he can come up with that has the boss man giving lap dances in the champagne room.

 

Bane stares at him expectantly, but John’s a cop, and above that, he’s stubborn as hell, so there’s no way he’s going to break first. John wipes his sweaty hands on his jeans and Bane tracks the movement, his eyes flicking up, to the chandelier in the corner and back again, so quick it would be easy for John to have missed were he not scared shitless and hypersensitive to Bane’s every movement. 

 

“Most clients are seated for my attentions,” Bane says, his voice high and mechanical. It makes John jump because for all the grainy photos and the second hand stories they have of Bane, never has anyone mentioned what the mask sounds like. “But you are small and I would easily crush you, so you may rest in my lap.”

 

John gawks as Bane moves to the couch and sits down in the center, legs splayed wide. His unitard leaves very little to the imagination and John has to tamp down his hysterics because the death machine on the loveseat wants him to sit on his knee. He can’t figure out what game Bane is playing, but he’s certainly not going to try to flee, lest by some miracle, his cover hasn’t been blown. Bane’s eyes move to the chandelier again and John finally gets it; they’re being watched. 

 

He steps closer slowly, until he’s standing between the v of Bane’s legs. For an instant he has the desire to drop straight to his knees, but he forces it aside. Bane made be gigantic and fit as fuck, but John doesn’t actually have a death wish. He perches lightly on Bane’s leg, ready to jump up and fight at the slightest provocation.

 

“You are apprehensive. Do not be shy, I cannot bite with the mask on.”

 

John can’t be certain, but he’s pretty sure Bane’s making fun of him. John glares and scoots further up Bane’s leg, until he’s nestled against his solid torso. If Bane was scary from the door, he’s fucking terrifying up close where John can pick out all the ways his own body is inferior.

 

“What is your name?” Bane asks, his big hand sneaking over John’s hip to hold him in place. John watches him warily, but Bane simply waits for him to respond. 

 

“Robin,” John tells him, and it’s not a lie so if Bane’s watching for a tell, he’s not going to find it.

 

“Like a little bird,” Bane muses. “May I touch you, little bird?”

 

John tenses up as Bane’s hand smoothes up his side. Up and down, gentle, but firm, until John is relaxing into it, despite his best intentions. 

 

“What would you like from me, little Robin?” Bane asks. His other arm is bare, the unitard cut away at the shoulder to reveal the substantial swell of his bicep. His forearm is twice the size of John’s and his hands,  _ fuck _ , his hands. The one that isn’t petting John is resting on his knee, his palm warm and heavy, further keeping John in his place. The thought of those hands on his bare skin is enough to have John squirming.

 

“Surely, you did not request my presence for nothing.” Bane’s voice has gained an edge, and it shakes John out of his head. There’s a frisson of tension in the body underneath him, and John can’t ignore the gut feeling that’s telling him Bane’s in as much danger here as he is if they don’t play along.

 

“I’ve never done this before,” John blurts, embarrassed, but knowing the flush on his face will add to his credibility. “I’m not sure what’s supposed to happen.”

 

Bane nods, his hand sliding up John’s leg until it’s resting on his upper thigh. “I will guide you. Many men wish for me to dominate them,” he explains, gently guiding John’s limbs until he’s straddling Bane’s thighs, his own legs spread obscenely to accommodate Bane’s girth.

 

“I don’t want that.” John flushes again, but Bane simply nods, shuffling down the couch a few inches. The cut of Bane’s unitard is low, dipping down over his abdomen to show a hint of his hip bones, and John’s crotch is now sitting directly over the fabrics lowest point. 

 

“Very well, perhaps all you need is a little encouragement, Robin.”

 

Bane’s hands clamp down on John’s ass, dragging him forward and back slowly, grinding John’s already stimulated cock against his lower abdomen. John hisses, falling forward. His hands land on Bane’s shoulders, and  _ holy fuck _ , he’s built like an ox. Bane does it again, moving John’s body without his permission or his help, and nothing in the world could stop that from sending a jolt straight to John’s cock.

 

John looks down on Bane, confused and aroused, but he doesn’t move to stop him. Bane’s eyes are so fucking calm, like they’re having a completely normal conversation and he can’t feel John growing harder with every pull.

 

“You’re doing well, little bird,” Bane rasps through the mask and John whimpers quietly, hoping like hell whoever is watching didn’t catch that. From the look in his eyes, Bane certainly did, and the next drag is harder, slower, and John falls forward again, gasping against the lycra of Bane’s outfit.

 

“You are not safe here,” Bane says into his ear. “After this you must leave and never return.”

 

John straightens up to argue and Bane runs his thumb up his cock, the pressure hard, but fantastic through John’s jeans.

 

“I think you are ready for more,” Bane tells him, opening John’s button and zipper with one strong tug. 

 

John groans when Bane pulls him out, his cock disappearing into Bane’s surprisingly soft fist. Bane only strokes him twice, then pulls John forward until he’s leaving a trail of precome across the ridge of Bane’s abs. He’s a little soft there, a perfect layer of fat over what is truly a ridiculous six-pack. John can’t help but buck against him, squeezing Bane’s shoulders to control his ride. Bane’s hands move to his lower back, each one spread perfectly to guide and support John’s movements.

 

John’s head is spinning. He came here for information and now he’s rubbing off against one of Gotham’s Most Wanted. The Commissioner is going to kill him.

 

“Excellent,” Bane croons, one of his hands sliding up John’s spine to wrap around the back of his neck and pulling him down until he’s draped over Bane, held tight and close, with nothing left to do but grind. “That’s it, little bird, take from me.”

 

John’s orgasm is coming on fast, his balls are tightening up and the soles of his feet are on fire, both sure signs that he’s moments away. But that also means he’s moments away from being out of here, wrung out, compromised, and with no information to save his ass when the brass finds out.

 

“Who’s watching?” he whispers, turning his head to the side and pressing his face into Bane’s neck. He can feel the goosebumps his breaths raise on Bane’s skin, and John’s certain he felt a shudder go through him. Probably. Maybe. It’s a bit hard to tell when he’s rubbing himself off on the guy like he’s a horny teenager about to get caught.

 

Bane trails the mask through John’s hair, his breath heavy but measured through the grill. “Come for me, little bird.”

 

John makes a truly inelegant sound as his orgasm punches through him. Bane’s hands clamp down on John’s neck and his back, keeping them pressed together while John shakes apart in his lap. He feels like he comes forever, shooting all over Bane’s stomach and his own shirt, soiling them both until there’s no hope of making it out of the club while maintaining his innocence.

 

John finally settles, jerking every now and then when Bane jostles him and aftershocks arc through his sensitive cock. Bane pets him while John pants loudly into his ear, warm hands soothing on his cooling skin. Only when John start to return to his senses does Bane speak.

 

“Ra’s al Ghul lives.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't getting any less cracky, folks.

John stumbles out of the club, his jacket zipped up over his come-stained shirt, a wet patch on the front of his jeans, and Suarez hot on his heels. 

 

“What the hell, man?” Suarez says, jogging to keep up with John’s pace. “What happened in there?”

 

“We need to get home.” John tells him, cutting the corner so close his shoulder scrapes across the brick of the building.

 

“John, we can’t. Not unless-”

 

John spins around and grips Suarez by the arms. “Carlos. We need. To. Get. Home.”

 

“Shit,” Suarez spits, pushing John ahead of him. They’re under strict instructions not to interact with their handler at basecamp unless their lives are in danger, but fuck it, this is too big not to report immediately. Ra’s al Ghul alive and in Gotham is enough to have the brass shitting themselves in fear, and the more time they have to prepare, the more people may make it out alive. 

 

Basecamp is in a low-rent apartment complex about a dozen blocks from the club. They’re only a few blocks away, John’s mind working overtime trying to figure out why Ra’s would have Bane running a strip club of all things, when Suarez goes down. A tranquilizer dart imbeds itself into the window ledge behind John when he drops to the ground. He crawls over to Suarez, checking his pulse to make sure he’s okay, and that’s when he hears it; the soft whirr of the engine that shouldn’t be. He has just enough time to raise his middle finger to the sky before everything goes dark.

 

John wakes up on a rooftop across town. Some glass and steel monster in the financial district with a big enough surface to park the Batwing. John groans, rubbing his neck and finding the fucking tranq dart still in place.

 

“You know I was thirty feet away from you at the club, right? We could have talked then,” he croaks. Whatever was in the dart has given him cottonmouth like never before.

 

“We shouldn’t be seen together,” Batman rasps, and as always, John grimaces because how the hell does he talk in that voice and not destroy his throat? “It could be deadly for us both.”

 

Right, well, John’s just going to keep the fact that he tried to order a private room for them to himself, then. No use upsetting someone with the ability to kidnap you at will.

 

“What were you even doing there? You left me that voicemail for a reason, I presume, so why investigate yourself?”

 

“We needed a man on the inside.” Batman said, still standing in the shadows like some kind of voyeur. 

 

“We did?” John asks, shaking his head. He’s still a little fuzzy from the dart, but he still remembers where he was going and why. 

 

“Ra’s al Ghul is alive,” Batman tells him dramatically, staring at John from behind his mask and all that face paint. He looks like he expects John to clutch his pearls and faint or something, and really, John’s just super unimpressed with everything right now.

 

“I know. Did you seriously kidnap me and leave my partner unconscious in an alley to tell me that?” John gets to his feet and dusts off his clothes, looking around for a door, or a ladder, or anything, really, to get him the hell off this roof.

 

Suddenly, Batman is in his face, backing him against the chainlink fence surrounding the electrical station. He’s giving John his best ‘be afraid’ look, and John has to admit, it’s pretty impressive.

 

“How did you know that?” Batman demands.

 

“Ah, Bane told me?” John says honestly.

 

“And how long have you been consorting with Bane?”

 

John flinches, suddenly feeling the very uncomfortable and very telling remnants of his meeting with Bane, which are currently gluing his shirt to his stomach.

 

“Only tonight. We, um. Had a, a meeting? In one of the private rooms. I was trying to figure out what you were doing there, but Bane walked in instead.”

 

“Did you see his performance, was he better than I was?” Batman asks, a hint of anxiousness seeping into his tone.

 

“Ah, what?” John rears back. “Look, he told me we were being watched, and he seemed really worried about getting caught telling me anything. Now, I don’t know about you, but if Bane’s worried, I’m fucking terrified. I think he’s being held captive by Ra’s.”

 

“Bane wouldn’t be afraid of Ra’s al Ghul. What song did he use?”

 

“Huh?” John frowns, trying to sidestep away, but Batman’s arms come up to box him in, and okay, apparently he’s not going anywhere.

 

“Bane. What song did he dance to?”

 

“I don’t think he did,” John says slowly. “I bought a room before your set was even over and he showed up pretty quickly.”

 

“But you saw my performance. What did you think? Is there something I could be doing better?” Batman steps back, chewing on the tip of one of his gloves. For his sake, John hopes they’re not the ones he used to strip with.

 

John starts to edge around the enclosure, hoping he can find a way off the roof because Batman wants notes on his fucking striptease and John did not sign up for this.

 

“I didn’t make much in tips. I don’t understand why. I’ve always been good at everything,” Batman grumbles pacing, and John’s almost to the corner of the fence. There’s a door on the other side, he just knows it, but before he can make a run for it, Batman’s attention snaps back to him.

 

“You could teach me!”

 

John freezes. “Teach you to...strip?”

 

“To dance. You had some good moves at the Policeman’s Ball last year.”

 

“How on earth do you know that?” John asks, growing a little frantic.

 

“Bruce Wayne told me,” Batman tells him gravely, and John has to fight not to roll his eyes because how is this guy even real?

 

“Jesus,” he mutters, pulling at his hair. “Look, I’m not going to teach you how to strip. It’s just not, no. Okay? No.”

 

Batman nods. “I understand. We’ll switch tactics, then.”

 

“Thank Christ.”

 

“You apply for a job at the club and I’ll set up surveillance.”

 

“Wait. What? No. No, no, no, no. That is very much not happening. They’ve already seen me in there. Bane told me not to come back!” John shakes his head, convinced if he does it hard enough, Batman will either do as he says, or John will give himself a concussion and be pulled off the case. The second option is looking pretty appealing right now.

 

“Exactly, you already have an in with him as a customer,” Batman says, as if that settles everything.

 

“But I’m like, ninety-nine percent sure he knows I’m a cop. Which is why he told me Ra’s is alive. Remember that?” John’s starting to panic. Not because he’s scared to go back to the club, though he is, make no mistake, but because he slowly realizing Bruce Wayne may be a millionaire playboy, but Batman is a raving lunatic in a costume.

 

“You have sensuous hips, you’ll have no problem fitting in.”

 

John looks around the roof. “Am I being punked?”

 

The next thing he knows, Batman is turning away with a swirl of his cape. He jumps in the Batwing, and before John can even protest, he’s taken to the air, waving cheerfully from the cockpit.

 

John slumps. This is not fucking happening, he decides, as he hikes his way down thirty-seven flights of stairs. Batman is insane and no one other than him could possibly think this is a good idea.

 

Suarez jumps to his feet when John opens the door to the basecamp, visibly relaxing at the sight of him. John gives him an apologetic smile and knocks on the bedroom door, where his handler is set up.

 

“John, come in!” Toreli says, as he opens the door. “I believe you know the Police Commissioner.”

 

Commissioner Gordon turns to him with a small smile. “ Hello, John. I hear you’re quite the dancer.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life at the top isn't all it's cracked up to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'd, so sorry for any mistakes.

The following Friday night, John finds himself locked in a cage above the floor of The Dancing Bare in nothing but hot pants and knee-high socks. He closes his eyes and tries to pretend he’s been kidnapped and is forced to dance in the cage for someone else’s sick pleasure. But John’s a realist, and he knows only half of that is true. The real reason he’s thanking whoever invented anti-slip socks and cursing the overzealous asshole running the smoke machine, is because of Batman. Fucking Bruce Wayne, who is at this very moment dancing like a chicken on a hotplate while his multi-million dollar gear thunks artlessly to the ground.

 

The guy who runs the floor, the skinny guy John encountered before his horrifying and strangely satisfying orgasm with Bane, is named Barsad, and according to Batman, he’s Bane’s first in command. He’s also clearly blind because he laughed when John applied for the job and told him he was too scrawny to strip, but could pass as one of the twinks that dance on the weekends. He’s not scrawny, fuck you very much, he’s  _ lean _ . Despite that ringing endorsement, Barsad neglected to mention that John would be locked in a cage the whole time. For his own safety, apparently.

 

Batman’s cape flies halfway across the room, but at least he doesn’t hit anyone this time, and seriously, like John couldn’t do better than  _ that _ . Batman seems to think so, too, because he’s always calling John for tips. Three days ago he started texting John pictures of all his different Bat-suits, and there are a lot, but no, John doesn’t think the one with  _ nipples _ will excite people. John has no idea what he’s done to deserve this, but he’s really, really sorry about it.

 

John hasn’t seen Bane again since that first night, and he doesn’t have access to the dancer’s schedules, so he’s stuck writhing behind bars while he waits for something to happen. Batman is the more patient of the two, content to strip terribly and leave coded messages John can’t decipher in inappropriate places. As much as John likes the guy, finding a rolled up strip of paper between your asscheeks is crossing a line.

 

His third weekend at the club, he finally catches sight of Bane. Or rather, the big guy catches him. John’s on his way out front because Barsad insists he be in his cage when the doors open, when a large hand wraps around his bicep and drags him behind a curtain. John smacks into a very broad, very hard chest, looking up, and up, and up until he encounters Bane’s scowling face. He’s not actually sure if Bane is scowling, since all John can see from this angle is the mask, but his breath sounds angry, and it’s kind of amazing how much Bane can convey through oxygen intake alone.

 

“Why are you here?” Bane demands, shaking John until his teeth clack together.

 

“Um, ah, I work here?” John tries to take a step back, but his body remembers the last time he was in close proximity to Bane, and all it wants to do it wriggle closer.

 

“Quit,” Bane spits, his other hand clamping down on John’s shoulder to keep him still.

 

Before John can respond, Barsad appears beside them, calm, and infuriatingly smug, as always.

 

“He is required elsewhere, Brother.”

 

Bane releases John and turns slowly to Barsad. John thinks he must have serious set of ovaries hiding under all that camo, because Bane looks pissed and Barsad doesn’t even blink.

 

“You put him in a cage,” Bane says, his voice quiet, but deadly.

 

“I thought it a fitting place for your little bird,” Barsad smirks and John’s stomach plummets because he has a pretty good idea who was watching their little performance in the champagne room.

 

Bane’s hands curl into fists and John decides the best course of action might be to melt into the background. As soon as he moves, though, he’s pinned by twin gazes.

 

“He should not be here,” Bane tells Barsad, still watching John with those cool, green eyes.

 

“It is too late for that,” Barsad says, softly, like he regrets it. “At least now he has an ideal view.”

 

Barsad drops his gaze to his feet, but Bane’s still staring at John, who feels like he can barely breath under the scrutiny.

 

“You will lock him in,” Bane decides, and something in the finality of his tone shocks John back into reality.

 

“Hey, I’m standing right here!”

 

“I already am,” Barsad smirks at John, like he’s a precocious two-year-old. “I have the only key.”

 

“I think I can handle a couple of handy drunks, you know. Besides, I’m pretty sure locking an employee in a freaking cage is against the law.” It is, he looked it up.

 

“I will escort you to your performance area.” Bane takes hold of John’s arm again and drags him off, Barsad waving his fingers after them as John glares.

 

“I can take care of myself,” John mumbles when Bane stops beside the cage.

 

“Your continued presence here suggests otherwise,” Bane say, dryly.

 

“I got bills to pay, too,” John tries, because he’s still not completely sure Bane knows he’s a cop. “Debts that are owed.”

 

One of Bane’s eyebrows goes up and he helps John into the cage with a surprisingly gentle hand. “Whose debts are you paying, I wonder,” Bane says evenly, snapping the giant lock closed. His eyes wander over to where Batman is taking the stage and when John cringes, it’s not from the song choice alone.

 

Not only does Bane probably know who, and what, John is, but he knows he’s connected to Batman as well. Great. 

 

Bane leaves John and the pedestal rises until John is perched high above the crowd. For the first time, he really does feel like a bird trapped in a cage. He just hopes they don’t intend to clip his wings.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone gets handsy with John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd because I'm impatient, but this is for @youcantsaymylastname and her inspiration of Batman's cape dance! Happy Birthday, darling!

It takes another week before John finally gets a glimpse of Bane on stage. Another week of having nothing to report to his team about Bane’s organization. Another seven days of fielding calls and texts from Batman about what stage name is best, and maybe actually moving his hips when he dances, and why military-grade kevlar isn’t ideal for his routine. All that waiting and fantasizing with his dick in his hand, and it turns out Bane doesn’t dance so much as he poses, stripping off a layer between tableaus until he’s in nothing but his boots and grey cargo pants, button popped and fly open just far enough to see the thick curve of the top of his dick where it lays, dangerous and long against his leg. 

 

John hastily wipes his mouth because,  _ damn _ , does he regret hot getting his hands on Bane when they were alone. He’s hard in his little boyshorts and the creepy fuck that’s been stuffing dollar bills through the bars of the cage suddenly has a hand around John’s ankle. He tugs with surprising strength and John stumbles to his knees. Greedy, sweaty hands clutch at him, squeezing and rubbing at his exposed flesh, and then the man is thrown halfway across the room. The sound of metal on metal makes John wince, but Bane’s gentle hands coax him off the floor of the cage, palm on the back of John’s head so he doesn’t forget to duck through the door on his way out. The padlock is on the floor in pieces and something warm and bright preens in John’s chest.

 

Bane leads him into the back, arms caging John in protectively as they make their way past the other dancers. Batman is in the corner, stretching, and doesn’t seem to see them at all, so John curls further into Bane, sneaking a peek at where his pants are still undone and scandalously low on his hips.

 

Bane presses John into a chair and hands him a bottle of water, crossing to the opposite side of the room to stare and breathe aggressively in John’s direction.

 

“I was fine, you know,” John says, twisting off the lid of the bottle. “I mean thanks, but I had it under control.”

 

Bane glares harder and crosses his arms over his massive chest.

 

“Is someone going to pick up my tips for me?” John asks, just to be a shit and is rewarded when Bane growls lowly.

 

John hides his smile by taking a swig from the bottle. They watch each other across the small room, Bane’s eyes travelling over John’s body in a way that makes John flush and sprawl in the chair, his legs falling open and loose. Bane’s breaths turn sharp, but before either of them can act, Barsad slips into the room, passing a sardonic gaze over both of them before rolling his eyes.

 

“Was that necessary?” he asks Bane.

 

“There is a strict no touching policy,” Bane grunts.

 

“We have bouncers to handle that. Not dancers.”

 

John can’t see Bane’s mouth, but he’s pretty sure he sneers at Barsad calling him a dancer.

 

“He is clearly not safe in the cage.”

 

“Where would you like me to put him?” Barsad asks calmly. “On the floor where anyone can get to him? There are only so many options, Brother, and you refuse to put him on stage. If you insist he be he-”

 

“Enough,” Bane barks and John’s eyebrows shoot up. “This is the safest place for him now. Where he can be watched carefully.”

 

Barsad smirks. “By your keen eyes, no doubt.”

 

“You know I’m still in the room, right?” John asks.

 

“Quiet,” Bane tells him, glaring at Barsad like he wants to melt him with his gaze. “He can shadow you until we find something more suitable.”

 

“No, he cannot,” Barsad contests hotly and it’s the most emotion John’s ever seen from the guy. He kind wishes he had some popcorn. And pants.

 

“Just for now. I will find a place for him, but I cannot have him underfoot tonight, you know that.” Bane says, meaningfully.

 

Barsad’s shoulders slump the barest amount and he nods sharply. “As you wish. But if he annoys me I will lock him in a closet. For his own good.”

 

“Of course,” Bane agrees, as though Barsad is the most reasonable man on earth.

 

“Hey! Don’t I get a say in this?” John protests, jumping to his feet.

 

“No,” Bane and Barsad say in unison. 

 

Bane doesn’t spare John a second glance before leaving and John bites his cheek, feeling small and cast aside.

 

“You will get dressed and meet me on the floor in five minutes. If I have to come looking for you, you will regret it,” Barsad tells him.

 

“I’m not afraid of you.”

 

A slow smile curls across Barsad’s face and it’s the scariest thing John’s ever seen. “Then our time together shall be educational.”

 

Four minutes and twenty-three seconds later, John is sitting at a table with Barsad, listening to a patron try to barter for unmonitored time with one of the servers. It’s the young man John noticed when he was there with Suarez. The one with the red cloth hidden under his apron. The kid isn’t in sight, no doubt having been whisked off the floor as soon as the man started making inquiries. 

 

To his credit, Barsad has a killer poker face. He give nothing away as the man tries to barter with innuendo and crude jokes. John wants to introduce the guy to his fist, but he follows Barsad’s lead, sitting relaxed and feigning disinterest in the proceedings.

 

“Mr. Silvio, what you have asked for is impossible,” Barsad finally cuts in. “A server is not a performer. And servers are not available to the clientele.”

 

“Everyone’s got a price, though, don’t they?” Silvio leers. 

 

“Perhaps we can find you someone else that suits your tastes,” Barsad offers, steele in his voice.

 

“I don’t want someone else, I want  **him** . Come on, it’s only a matter of time before he’s on stage, am I right? I’ll break him in for you. Won’t even charge you a brokerage fee!” Silvio laughs, loud and obnoxious, and the only thing that keeps John from launching himself across the table is the knife Barsad lays between them.

 

“Mr. Silvio,” he says, voice deadly calm and so quiet Silvio has to lean in to hear him. “You are no longer welcome in this establishment. Please remove yourself from my sight before I am forced to remove you myself.”

 

“What? How dare you? Do you know who I am?” Silvio sputters. His hand twitches towards the knife and faster than John can comprehend, the blade is wedged through Silvio’s hand and into the table underneath his palm, keeping him in place as he howls in pain.

 

Barsad stands and brushed lint off his shirt, raising an eyebrow at John until he stumbles to his feet and away from Silvio, now whimpering and trying to pry the knife out of his hand. The music is loud and the lights are low, and none of the other patrons seem to have noticed anything, so they make their way to the bar. Barsad hands John a beer and leans against the wall, his eyes roaming around the room.

 

“Are you afraid of me now?” Barsad asks, sounding bored.

 

John takes a drink and grins. “Nah, I grew up in Gotham, it takes more than that to scare me. That was like Sunday dinner where I’m from.”

 

Barsad’s mouth twitches, then frowns as Batman’s song comes on and clamours onto the stage. John groans quietly, but says nothing as The Bat tries to gyrate his hips while still wearing forty pounds of unnecessary equipment. He removes his cape in a dramatic fashion, swirling it around his body instead of letting it fly into the audience. He seems to be attempting some sort of burlesque-type dance where he strips behind the cape and only shows glimpses of his bared flesh, but the cape has a mind of it’s own and it mostly just awkward and painful to watch. Barsad drags a hand over his face as patons catcall and holler up at Batman, urging him on.

 

“Why doesn’t Bane want me on stage?” John asks over the music. 

 

“Perhaps he does not think your dancing adequate,” Barsad says dully.

 

“My moves are plenty adequate, fuck you very much. Legendary,” John watches the stage where Batman nearly knocks a man unconscious with an uncoordinated high kick. “I’m better than he is, at any rate.”

 

They watch in horror, John lurching forward uselessly as Batman slips on a ten dollar bill and stumbles off the stage, caught up in his cape and landing on his head. Barsad and John rush the stage, fighting through the crowd to get to him, Barsad calling for a bouncer to help them. Batman is blinking dazedly and bleeding from somewhere under the mask. 

 

“Happy Tuesday!” he slurs when he sees them.

 

Barsad curses and motions for the bouncer to haul Batman backstage. The crowd backs off, murmuring and disappointed, and Barsad turns to John.

 

“Well, little bird, it looks like you’re going to get your chance to show just how legendary those moves are. You’ll take The Bat’s second show.” 

 

If John didn’t know better, he’d swear Barsad was gleeful at this turn of events. He’d been kidding before, he has absolutely no desire to strip, which is exactly what he told Gordon when he forced John into this little undercover operation. The universe, it seems, has other ideas.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John dances. Aka, the crackiest of crack.

John wants to run when they tell him he needs a costume and a song to dance to. Only his dedication to professionalism keeps him in place. That and the 300 pound goliath Barsad assigned to ‘watch’ him, who is currently standing between him and the door. So yeah, costumes.

 

John’s not opposed to dressing up now and then, and the handcuffs they gave him when he graduated the academy certainly weren’t his first set, but this is different. This is on stage. With spotlights and an audience. Men and women there just to see him shake his ass and hopefully cop a feel when they stuff bills into his flimsy underwear. John closed his eyes and promised himself that he’d get Bruce back for all the shit he got put through in the name of justice.

 

The racks are full of firemen jackets, Navy whites, and assless chaps, but none of it appeals to John. He knows he would be most appealing as some sort of twink, but the thought of dressing up as a slutty cowboy or fratboy distresses him. He pauses when he comes across the police uniform. GPD has men planted in the club and he knows more than one would take offense, not to mention the shit John would catch for disrespecting the uniform. Batman can apparently strip in full gear, but not John.

 

His fingers brush over stiff white cotton and a smooth polyester tie and suddenly he knows, he’s going to hell.

 

The dj laughs and fistbumps him when John tells him which song to play, and then it’s back to the dressing area to get ready. Once his costume is on, he stretches, mentally preparing what he’s going to do on stage and trying to choreograph on the fly. Batman has disappeared, but one of the other dancers, a guy in a bright green leotard with a black question mark on his chest hands him a flask.

 

“First time is always the worst,” the guy says with a wink and John takes a swig, the alcohol burning its way down this throat.

 

“With any lucky there will only  _ be _ a first time.”

 

The guy checks out John, leaning around him to see his ass. “Trust me, they’re gonna want more of you.”

 

John chokes on his next swallow, but his song is starting and he’s pushed towards the stage.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the dj croons. “We something very special for you tonight. A sweet young morsel, straight outta his momma’s nest, a gift from us to you as he pops his dancing cherry, performing to the Cult classic, She Sells Sanctuary, put your hands together and get your wallets out for… ROBIN!”

 

John rolls his eyes and steps onto the stage to a smattering of applause. The lights are blinding, the music's too loud, and he’s already sweating, but he struts across the stage like he owns it, swaying his hips as the catcalls start. His costume is a classic and people start moving closer the the stage when he bends at the waist and shimmies his way back up, hand sliding over the knot of his shirt above his navel. He keeps going, hips swinging low, knees open, as he pops the buttons with shaking hands, one at a time. 

 

He’s singing along and he drops into a crouch to untie the ends of the shirt, playfully smacking a patron in the face with it before moving on. Once his shirt is off, he feels more relaxed, more into the music and the movements, and he prances around the stage, teasing the crowd as he inches the little plaid skirt higher on his thighs. He stumbles in his platform shoes when he spots Bane at a table in the back. His eyes are boring into John while the man beside him prattles on and on, not noticing that all of Bane’s attention is on the stage.

 

Sweat makes John’s fake glasses slide down his nose and one of his knee-high socks is falling down his calf, but there’s heat warring with anger in Bane’s eyes and John can’t help but want to show off. He pops the clasp on the skirt, letting it fall open over his hip. The crowd cheers, but John snaps it back into place, falling to his knees to crawl to the front of the stage. He bends backwards on his knees until he’s almost flat, then curves up slowly, the sweat on his skin catching every light on his way back up. His hands are everywhere, but his eyes are glued to Bane as he rises to his feet. 

 

The skirt lands at his feet and the club goes insane, screaming and howling for the little white cross on the crotch of John’s thong. 

 

_ “The fire in your eyes keeps me alive,”  _ John mouths to Bane, arms spread wide as the song winds down. That’s when Bane’s companion finally notices what Bane’s starting at and turns his head, and fuck,  _ fuck, _ it’s Jonathan Crane. The goddamn Scarecrow is sitting thirty-five feet away, squinting at John like he’s trying to place where he knows him from. John was a witness in the case that put Crane away five years ago for peddling mind altering uppers to club kids, and if Crane’s out of Arkham and John didn’t know, it’s a good bet no one does.

 

John panics and does the only thing he can think of. He rips off the thong and cartwheels off stage.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst, angst, angst, angst! It's a party!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has taken forever and I'm sorry! Here, have some porn!

John’s barely pulled his underwear on when Bane’s hand clamps around the back of his neck, fingers digging into his skin as he forces John down the hallway and into a small storage room. There are stacked chairs, extra stock, and a shit ton of sanitizer in neat piles and when Bane pushes John forward, he nearly takes out an entire stack of boxes.

 

“What. Are. You. Doing?” Bane bites out, his breathing heavy and sharp through the mask.

 

“Barsad made me do it!” John blurts, holding his arms up as Bane stalks toward him. He braces himself for a strike, but Bane’s hands spread over his ribs, warm and rough on his sweaty skin.

 

“You are supposed to remain unnoticed. Quiet. Obedient. Hidden.” Bane’s hands are roaming, slipping over John’s nipples and down, down to curl into his underwear, his hungry touch a direct contradiction to the angry words he’s speaking.

 

“Have, have you met me?” John stutters as Bane rips the flimsy fabric in two, bisecting the cross and making him shiver. He’s half hard and it only takes a quick stroke or two from Bane’s large palm to get him all the way there.

 

“Crane remarked on you,” Bane tells him, working John’s cock relentlessly. “You’re in more danger now. He didn’t recognize you, but he is interested in a private show.”

 

“Wha—ah, what did you tell him?” John pants, clinging to Bane’s massive shoulders.

 

Bane grunts, turning John around and pressing him against the wall. John gasps at the cold cement against his skin, but arches his back and sticks out his ass when he hears Bane’s zipper. God, it’s going to hurt like hell, but he can’t say no. Not now, not like this, when every inch of his skin is on fire for the man behind him. Bane eases himself between John’s thighs, surprising a high-pitched noise out of him, but as soon as he’s in place, Bane’s firm manner is back and he’s thrusting hard enough that John has to brace himself on the wall or risk breaking his nose.

 

“Crane cannot have you,” Bane tells him, puffing warm breaths over John’s ear. His fingers are biting into John’s hips and his movements are punishing. John thinks he just might die from how fucking turned on he is. 

 

“What if he insists?” John desperately wants to get a hand around his cock, but he’s afraid if he tries to move, he’ll land face-first into the cement and Bane might stop.

 

“You are mine,” Bane growls, low and dangerous, the mask pressed to John’s neck. John whimpers, his orgasm ripping out of him unexpectedly and painting the dull grey wall. Bane doubles his efforts, nearly pinning John to the wall as he fucks him, his thick cock rubbing the underside of John’s balls, making him squirm with oversensitivity. Bane hums like he’s amused and wraps his arms around John, holding him close. With the extra support, John can adjust, narrowing his stance and squeezing his thighs together as hard as he can until Bane is groaning and slicking John’s thighs and spent cock with come.

 

John expects Bane to simply walk away once he’s finished, but he stays put, holding John and making a noise that sounds suspiciously like purring, until John is lax in his arms. He shivers when Bane releases him, but he finds himself smiling as Bane tears open a package of cocktail napkins and cleans him up. Bane’s cock is still hanging out of his pants and John can’t help but drop to his knees, mouthing and licking at it. Bane makes a startled noise and John takes it as a compliment because he’s pretty sure people don’t often get a chance to take Gotham’s Reckoning by surprise.

 

Bane’s hands cards through John’s hair, slow and rhythmic as John laps at him, savouring the salty musk that floods his senses. Once all the come is gone, John starts sucking in earnest, wanting Bane hard for him again so they can go another round. He’s tired and come drunk, and he forgets for a minute that he’s undercover and that there is more at stake here than another orgasm. Bane pushes him back gently, and John thinks he should have known that a man like Bane would have a soft side. Everyone needs touch and affection, and John thinks for a minute that he could live with being the one to give that to him.

 

“Detective,” Bane says, and it hits John like a slap in the face. He reels back, landing on his ass, heat rushing to his face as he tries not to cover himself in a pathetic attempt at separating himself from the situation.

 

“So you know,” he says, getting to his feet. Bane doesn’t offer help and for that, John is grateful.

 

“I have always known.” Bane watches him with cool detachment as he rips open a box of table cloths and wrap one around his nakedness.

 

“I figured.” John sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

 

“You cannot leave now,” Bane tells him, his grey-blue eyes drilling into John’s. “Too many people would question your absence.”

 

“What, strippers don’t just move on with no notice?”

 

“Not from here,” Bane says and it sends a shiver up John’s spine. “You will stay and you will obey me.”

 

“I will?” John asks, raising his eyebrows. “Because that hasn’t worked very well so far. I have a job to do here.”

 

“No, you simply have to survive. I will not have your blood on my hands, Robin.”

 

John glares at him, anger replacing his embarrassment. “I’ll do what you say when you start cooperating with my investigation.”

 

Bane squeezes his hands into fists so hard his knuckles pop, and whatever warmth was left in his eyes bleeds away. “There is no investigation. You are not an officer here. You are mine and I will do with you as I see fit. I suggest you forget any grievances you have against this or I will be forced to make you forget. You will leave with me tonight and you will not leave my sight again until this mess is sorted.”

 

“What? You’re kidnapping me now? I don’t fucking think so!” John sees red, taking a step forward.

 

Bane cocks his head, his brows narrowing. “You wish to test me, little bird?”

 

John swallows. “You can’t just keep me against my will, my team expects me to check in.”

 

“And you will, with information I give you.”

 

“That’s bullshit,” John spits.

 

Bane shrugs.

 

“I won’t stay put. I’ll run the minute I get the chance.”

 

A raspy sound blows through the mask and to John, it sounds like a sigh. 

 

“Do not force me to clip your wings.” Bane’s words are severe, but resigned, weighted with the certainty of a man who knows what it is to sacrifice the things he loves. It leaves John terrified, naked, and cold, wrapped up in a sparkly, black table cloth.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Literally nothing happens in this chapter. What is plot?

It turns out that when Bane said John wouldn’t leave his sight, he wasn’t kidding. He waits on the other side of the curtain as John showers and personally picks out John’s outfit for the remainder of the night, forcing him to be arm candy as he does rounds of the club, checking on the bar and the private rooms. There are no more ‘business’ meetings with the unsavoury criminals of Gotham’s underbelly, but John does have the misfortune of seeing Batman’s set from floor of the club. It’s...well, it’s enlightening.

 

“I thought he had a concussion,” John remarks as the music starts. At least it’s  _ Hungry Eyes _ and not the usual shit he ‘dances’ to.

 

“It would appear he has recovered,” Bane muses, watching the crowd.

 

“Right, ‘recovered’,” John mutters. Batman magically healing is a much more believable story than him faking the whole episode to force John into doing something he had already refused to do. Because that  _ never _ happens.

 

“It is fortunate,” Bane says, and holy shit, is he actually trying to carry on a conversation with John that isn’t just threats? “He is popular.”

 

“Yeah, I really don’t get that,” John admits. “He can’t dance. Like, at all.”

 

“No, but he is always enthusiastic. Eager to please. Our clientele enjoys entertainment that doesn’t make them think too hard. Someone unquestioning who wants to please them above all else.”

 

“So you’re saying my set was shit?” John jokes, wondering silently if Batman is secretly a genius at this whole crappy stripper thing. He looks ridiculous, but he’s got every guy in the club on the edge of his seat, transfixed.

 

Bane’s eyes crinkle and his giant hand lands on John’s thigh. “You are appealing for the opposite reason, little bird.”

 

John grows warm and takes a sip of the water in front of him. “I like to think of my difficult personality as charming.”

 

Bane hums in agreement, his hand flexing on John. “Some men enjoy a challenge. Someone who won’t cow to them, who pushes back. Someone they can break.”

 

John shivers. “Which do you prefer?”

 

Bane eyes him closely, his gaze heated, but hard. “I believe I’ve made that perfectly clear, Robin.”

 

John bites his lips against the smile trying to form on his face. He had no idea it was possible to feel pride, shame, and utter terror at the same time, but Bane has introduced him to a lot of things he never imagined, so he shouldn’t be surprised.

 

“His name still sucks,” he says, looking back at the stage where Batman is now sitting on the side of the stage, allowing a patron to unzip his boot. He kicks the boot off with vigor and ends up clocking the guy in the temple, nearly knocking him out. John notices it’s Deacon Wenzel, a two-bit drug dealer known for adhering to his parole by staying exactly five hundred and one feet from the junior high he was arrested for selling at, and wonders again if this was the plan all along.

 

Bane doesn’t answer and they watch the rest of the set in silence. ‘Gotham Steele’ tries to shimmy off stage at the end and trips, disappearing in a flutter of curtains and dollar bills. 

 

By the time Barsad is tossing out the stragglers and the busboys are wiping down tables and chairs, John is struggling to stay awake. Bane is still beside him, counting out the money from the till drawers the bartender brings him, and jotting down the totals on a cashout sheet.

 

“Huh,” John says, frowning. The guys behind the bar are studiously cleaning the counters and a man nearly the size of Bane is mopping. “So this is like, an actual business?”

 

Bane raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t stop counting.

 

“I mean, you take this seriously. It’s not just a cover for whatever you’re involved in.” It occurs to John, belatedly, that he shouldn’t run his mouth about how much he’s discovered about the club, but it’s nearly 4 am and his brain is still addled by the orgasm Bane ripped out of him hours ago. He really needs some fucking sleep.

 

“There is very little I do not ‘take seriously’.”

 

“No, I know, but you don’t have to be here. You could let someone else do the little stuff and just fuck off. Be the face of the club and nothing else.”

 

Bane stiffens beside him. “I doubt my being the face of anything would increase patronage.”

 

John is stunned. The back of Bane’s neck is going red and his shoulders are hunched the slightest bit. It seems impossible, but John’s certain he’s looking at the vulnerable side of Bane. John knocks his knee into Bane’s, hoping the small movement conveys the sentiment he can’t put into words because no one in existence could translate ‘your hideous face mask turns me on’ and not risk dying on the spot. It seems to do the trick, though, because Bane presses back and goes back to counting.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I updated! It's a miracle! Hopefully enough of one to forgive that it isn't beta'd!

Bane oversees John’s call into Toreli once they leave the club are settled in the back of a matte black SUV being driven by John’s new bodyguard when Bane and Barsad aren’t able to be with him. Elijah is the man’s name, and so far, he hasn’t spoken a word to anyone. He won’t even look at John, focusing instead on watching everyone else around them.

 

Bane puts up the partition and holds John’s phone out to him, like he’s doing him a favour or something. John snatches it and dials, letting out a squawk of protest when Bane takes it back and puts the call on speaker, the phone resting on his thigh.

 

“Blake?” Toreli’s voice barks through the speaker. “Where the hell have you been? Suarez has been chomping at the bit to raid the club because you went dark!”

 

John pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath. “I didn’t go dark, sir, I was working. I’m sorry if illicit strip clubs run by notorious gangsters don’t run during regular business hours.

 

Bane glares at him, apparently taking issue with being called a gangster, and John smiles back serenely because he didn’t ask to be the big guy’s new pet.

 

“Don’t get smart with me Blake, or I’ll have you back on the beat so fast you’ll still be wearing those bootie shorts,” Toreli threatens.

 

John thunks his head back against the seat, the padded leather not giving him the satisfactory jarring he was hoping for.

 

“What do you have to report?”

 

“Well, as you probably know by now, I’ve progressed from go-go dancing to actual stripping,” he starts.

 

“Your parents will be thrilled,” Toreli mutters.

 

“Don’t have parents, sir, but thanks for the reminder. Anyway,” John says loudly, over Toreli’s embarrassed sputtering. “Doctor Jonathan Crane was there tonight, having a little chat with Bane.”

 

Bane nods his approval and John rolls his eyes to cover the zing of pleasure it gives him.

 

“The Scarecrow is locked up, Blake,” Toreli points out.

 

“You might want to have them do roll call at Arkham, sir, because he was there. No one else is that pretty and that fucking creepy at the same time, trust me.”

 

Toreli’s voice is muffled over the line as the shouts orders to have Arkham checked, and John slumps in his seat. Bane’s hand slips behind his neck, his thumb rubbing firm circles over John’s aching muscles. Stripping is a lot more physically demanding than it looks.

 

“Blake,” Toreli comes back on, his voice quieter than before. “How you holding up?”

 

“I’m fine, sir,” John tells him, not opening his eyes. Bane’s hand is warm and soothing, and he thinks he’s in danger of falling asleep if he doesn’t stop the massage soon.

 

“John, tell us the truth, son,” Commissioner Gordon’s voice rasps, making John sit up straight and knock Bane’s hand away.

 

“Commissioner, I didn’t realize you were there, sir.”

 

Gordon chuckles. “Your language and insubordination made that clear, John. We heard reports of Bane being rough with you backstage. Do you need to come in?”

 

John’s face heats up and he ducks his head so he doesn’t have to look at Bane. “No, sir, it’s under control.”

 

“Son,” Gordon starts and John curls his fingers into his thighs because Gordon is worried Bane has hurt John, that John’s in danger, and while that might be true, John loves it. He’s starting to crave the danger that’s present when Bane’s big hands are on John’s body. The knife’s edge Bane makes him walk before wringing an orgasm out of him.

 

“I’m fine, sir, I promise. Maybe not safe,” John sneaks a glance at Bane, who stares back intently. “But I’ll survive.”

 

“Alright, John, if you say so,” Gordon sighs. “Just don’t let things go too far. Anything else to report?”

 

“No, sir, that’s all. I’ll call back in tomorrow morning.”

 

“Stay safe, son.”

 

Bane ends the call and slips the phone back in his pocket, his eyes, filled with something questioning and stormy, never leaving John.

 

“You think Crane is pretty?” Bane asks, and John chokes on his spit because that is not at all what he expected.

 

“Um, well, by—by conventional means,” he sputters. “It’s hard to deny those cheekbones.”

 

Bane hums and lowers the partition, signalling the end of the conversation. John turns his head to stare out the window, biting his lips against a smile because he’s fairly certain what he glimpsed in Bane’s eyes was a little bit of the green-eyed monster.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soft killer, warm killer  
> Little saboteur
> 
> Happy killer, sleepy killer  
> Grrr, grrr, grrr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day! What does it mean?!?!?!
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **it means nothing and results are not typical. Sorry.

John wasn’t not expecting Bane to take him home with him, but he didn’t quite expect ‘home’ to be a small rancher with perfectly cut grass and whimsical garden gnomes in one of Gotham’s older suburbs.

 

“What did you do to the people who lived here before?” John asks while Bane unlocks the door. He’s only half kidding, and Bane gives him a flinty glare instead of an answer. 

 

The living room, just inside the front door, looks normal, with a big-screen tv and leather sectional, complete with a worn-in ass groove in the corner seat. There are tasteful paintings on the walls, but no clutter whatsoever. No knick-knacks on shelves, no mail on the hall table, and no shoes left out to trip over. The room is completely void of anything that doesn’t serve a purpose. Bane wipes his feet carefully before moving further into the house, but John toes off his shoes because he wasn’t raised in a hole in the ground and the nuns taught him manners. Plus, Sister Estelle told him once that she’d come back from beyond the grave and beat him with a ruler if he tracked mud over a clean floor ever again, and he believed her.

 

The rest of the house is a little more in line with what John expected, and reminds him disturbingly of the few times he’s been in the Batcave. There is a wall of monitors in the den/office, which explains the frolicking gnomes outside because they’re all broadcasting a live feed of the perimeter. There must be others, as well, because half the neighbourhood is being tracked in real time, and with a clarity the GCPD would kill for.

 

“Nice set-up you’ve got here,” John says, playing with the toggle switch on the desk, zooming in on one of the cameras pointed into the kitchen of the house next door.

 

Bane swats his hand away and readjusts the view before pushing John ahead of him into the kitchen. “Do you require a meal?”

 

John lets out a breath and taps his fingers over his stomach. “I could eat. I usually get up to go running about this time, but something tells me you’re not going to let me do that.”

 

Bane raises an eyebrow and pulls a carton of eggs out of the fridge. John drops onto one of the kitchen stools and rests his head in his hand. He probably shouldn’t relax like this in front of the guy that’s supposedly his enemy, but Bane’s had plenty of chances to kill him and hasn’t, so John figures the guy has earned a shred of trust.

 

“You brought me home with you,” John says, angling his head towards Bane at the stove. “I know where you live now.”

 

“And should you decide to tell your superiors, I will be gone in an instant,” Bane tells him breezily.

 

“Yeah, but you still brought me here. You could have left me locked up at the club, or passed me off to one of your lacky’s. You’re  _ cooking _ for me.”

 

Bane pauses in scrambling the eggs, but doesn’t say anything.

 

“You  _ like me _ ,” John declares in triumph.

 

Bane turns to glare at him.

 

“I mean, obviously you’re interested in me sexually, or, at least in my body, but that, too, could have continued at the club. I mean, the backrooms of The Dancing Bare haven’t let us down yet, right? But you put me in a highly defensive vehicle and brought me home. Where you live.”

 

Bane plates the eggs and drops them in front of John, looking seriously disgruntled by John’s continued rambling.

 

“You like me,” John repeats, his grin softening into a more sedate smile. 

 

Bane grunts and tosses a fork onto the counter. “Eat.”

 

John presses his lips together, but he can’t help the smile that remains there, just like Bane apparently can’t stop staring at him as he does it. The eggs are good, spicy and warm, and just enough to take the curl of hunger away. When he’s done, he squeezes by Bane to rinse the plate and drop everything into the dishwasher. Bane, the Oppressor of Opulence, has a fucking maytag dishwasher and he’s low on rinse aid.

 

“Well?” John asks, standing close to Bane in the small kitchen. “I need sleep if I’m going to continue to play both sides of this game. Where’s your spare room?”

 

Bane huffs and leads him down back through the living room to an open door across the hall. The room is packed wall to wall with weights, benches, and floor mats. This is clearly where Bane works on his fitness, and though the image of him sweating to the oldies is alluring, the smell of rubber and stale sweat that lingers in the air, is not.

 

“I’m on to you, big guy,” John sniffs.

 

Bane makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a laugh and heads down the hall. John follows, admiring the view, and nearly bumping into Bane when he stops at another door, this one opening into a decent-sized master suite. The windows are shuttered from the inside, banishing all natural light, but the overhead lamp shines down on a king-sized bed that looks so comfy John wants to live in it. 

 

Bane’s hand presses gently at the small of his back and John realizes he’s leaning into Bane, letting him take his weight as John survey’s what is arguably one of the most intimate spaces in a person’s life.

 

“S’nice,” John tells him, shuffling forward. “Which side of the bed is yours?”

 

“Both of them,” Bane tells him, the crinkle next to his eyes indicating he’s teasing.

 

John huffs in fake annoyance and pulls his shirt over his head. His pants are next, and then he’s standing there in his socks and underwear, watching Bane watch him.

 

“Were you expecting more of a show?” John asks flatly. “Because I save all my best moves for paying customers.”

 

“Me too,” Bane tells him, his voice amused, like it was the first time Bane touched him. In the champagne room at the club, where Bane stripped John of all his professionalism and took him apart. Had him shaking and begging for it within minutes.

 

John licks his lips and pulls the covers back, not breaking eye contact with Bane as he slides into the bed. The sheets are cool and welcoming, and John sobs a little at how hard and perfect the mattress is. Bane watched him like a hawk, not moving to lie down until John is curled into a tight ball of exhaustion.

 

“What are you doing?” John asks, a hard edge to his voice.

 

Bane stills, the covers crushed in his fist where he was about to insert himself beneath them.

 

“You’re not getting into bed fully clothed, I don’t care who you are, that’s just gross,” John informs him, pulling the covers out of his grip. “You probably have stripper glitter all over your pants.”

 

“It is my bed, how I sleep in it is no concern of yours,” Bane informs him.

 

“It is when I’m in the bed. You brought me here, so this is clearly where your want me, and I’m not staying if you don’t get undressed.”

 

“It is safer for me to stay clothed.”

 

John rolls his eyes. “What are the changes that we’re going to be ambushed while we sleep?”

 

“Thirty-six percent,” Bane answers immediately.

 

John’s eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously? Shit. Okay, how’s this, you stay clothed, but take off your boots.”

 

Bane frowns down at him, so John lets the sheets fall a few inches, showing off the slender curve of his waist. Bane gives him a sour look, but he sits to unlace his boots, letting them drop to the floor.

 

“And you sleep on top of the covers,” John says before Bane can get up. Bane growls and glares at him over his shoulder. John shrugs. “Stripper glitter.”

 

Bane sighs, long and loud, but he lies back on top of the covers, his hands linked over his abdomen as his breathing slows. He flinches when John touches the mask.

 

“You have to wear this at night?”

 

“Do not mistake my interest in you for an invitation, detective.”

 

John cringes at the admonishment and pulls his hand away. “I’m just saying, you can relax a little. I’m not going to shiv you in your sleep. Pretty sure Barsad would have me dead before I got out of the house if I even thought about it.”

 

“Before you left the bed,” Bane corrects, giving a little and offering his arm.

 

John scoots closer, cushioning his head on Bane’s massive bicep, and it feels a bit like sleeping on a warm rock, but the trade off of being close enough to line his body along the arch of Bane’s, is worth it.

 

“When do we have to be up?” John asks, a yawn swallowing the last of his words.

 

“Sleep, little bird,” Bane soothes, his free hand brushing gently over John’s neck. “Just sleep.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...this is 2074 words of not what I meant to write. Bane and John did not follow the path I set for them and instead veered completely off course, landing in a pile of—well, you'll see.

John wakes up to hushed voices arguing, and it’s so normal that it takes him a minute to remember he’s not in his bed, and the voices don’t belong to his neighbours, The Masalhas.

  


He’s pretty sure it’s Bane and Barsad in the kitchen, and John knows if he tries to sneak out of the bed, they’ll hear him, so he stays put and quiets his breathing while straining to hear what’s being said. Bane’s voice is the clearest since the mask regulates it, but Barsad is a master of mumbling and he can’t catch much more than his own name and the badgering tone he uses when he says it.

  


From Bane he gets snippets, including ‘Gotham Police force’, ‘unknown element’, and most curiously, ‘bargaining chip’. He has to admit the last one stings a little, but he’s pretty much using Bane as the same thing, so he can’t fault him for his practicality.

  


They whisper harshly for another minute before Barsad snaps something low and weary that shuts Bane up and sends him stalking back to the bedroom.

  


“Trouble in paradise?” John asks when Bane enters. 

  


“It is none of your concern,” Bane tells hims shortly, stripping out of his shirt.

  


“If you keep saying that about stuff that actually concerns me, it’s going to lose its effectiveness as a warning,” John tells him, his eyes widening as Bane’s pants hit the floor. “What’cha doin’?”

  


“Disrobing.”

  


John shoves his face in his pillow and screams. “With what purpose?” he asks calmly, when he’s done.

  


“To wash myself,” Bane tells him, disappearing through another door.

  


“As in showering?” John calls, scrambling out of bed. “Does that mean you’re showering?”

  


The door leads to an ensuite bathroom with a toilet, small vanity, and shower stall. Bane is standing in front of the stall in all his naked glory, testing the water temperature before he steps in.

  


“Can I, um, can I get a shower, too?” John asks, his eyes roaming over Bane hungrily.

  


“Stripper glitter?” Bane guesses, the crinkle back at the corner of his eyes.

  


“That, and getting you under my hands while naked,” John confesses. “You haven’t really let me touch you.”

  


Bane straightens, and steps under the spray, careful not to get the mask wet. “You may join me if you wish.”

  


John doesn’t think twice about his burgeoning erection before he shucks off his underwear and hurries into the stall before Bane shuts the door. The room is chilly, but the water, and Bane, are hot, so John wraps himself around him and enjoys the deluge.

  


“Jesus, you’re fucking huge, you know that,” John says in wonder when he can’t touch the fingers of his other hand where he’s draped his arms around Bane’s shoulders. “I mean, of course you do, but seriously, how did you get so big?”

  


“Venom,” Bane states simply, refusing to look at John.

  


“Oh, right. I forgot about that.” 

  


Bane hums and grabs a bottle, shoving John’s head under the water to wet his hair.

  


“Did it hurt?” John asks, once Bane is working lather through his hair. There’s almost no scent to the soap, and John figures it because Bane doesn’t do well with strong smells. He noticed it at the club, where none of the dancers or servers wear cologne, and the patrons that do are ushered quickly through their dealings. “Getting the venom the first time? Coming off the venom?”

  


“You assume I am no longer dependent on it,” Bane says, shoving him back under the spray.

  


John coughs out water and steps on Bane’s foot on purpose. “It’s pretty obvious you are. I mean, the tubes are gone, for one, along with the roid rage you were working back then. Now when you get mad it’s less spastic and more weighted. There’s a reason for it. You can control it. You can use it.”

  


Bane stares down at him like John’s surprised him, but an instant later he’s bullying John back out of the way and soaping up his hands. “You are more astute than I thought, little Robin.”

  


“I’m taking that as a compliment and you can’t stop me,” John grins. “You going to answer my questions now?”

  


Bane raises an eyebrow and wraps one soapy hand around John’s cock, stroking hard and slow.

  


“Jesus,” John groans, falling back against the tiles. “You sure know how to distract a guy.”

  


Bane chuckles, pressing his bulk along John’s body, letting him carry enough of his weight that John’s panting in seconds, both hands clinging to Bane’s forearm as he works him.

  


“It felt worse than dying,” Bane whispers, the gentle tone of his voice distorted by the whine and hiss of the mask pressed to John’s temple. “Nothing can compare to the feeling of the poison taking over your body, burning its way through your veins, and scorching into your brain. There is no pain like the shredding of muscle and the cracking of joints, as it reshapes you in its image. My organs were flooded with its toxicity, rendering them useless to maintain my body’s functions, my mind drowned daily in the rancor it whispered in my ear. The contempt and bitterness that Ra’s al Ghul fed me while I was helpless to stop the Venom from infecting every atom of my being. He used me to exact his own vengeance, without my consent. He broke me over his knee, again and again, knowing I would always crawl back, begging for more. As long as I needed the Venom, I needed him.” 

  


John can barely breath. Bane’s defeated slump, his horrific confession, the too cold rasp of his breath across John’s face, it’s all enough to make him want to pull away, to take back his request for information. He doesn’t want to know anymore, doesn’t want to picture it in his head. Be haunted by it every time he closes his eyes. But Bane’s telling him, and that has him frozen in place, focusing on the rush of emotion in Bane’s words and the insistent tug on his cock.

  


“But you don’t need him anymore,” John whispers back, nudging his nose along the edge of the mask. “You overcame.”

  


Bane pulls back just enough to look into John’s face, his eyes bright and assessing.

  


“And now Ra’s is back. But he’s not quite ready to let you go, it that it?” John asks, canting his hips to keep Bane’s hand moving.

  


“You ask too many questions, little bird,” Bane tells him, and if John didn’t know any better, he’d think his tone is fond.

  


John grins, pressing a kiss to Bane’s neck. “You worried about me?”

  


Bane’s grips tightens until it hurts, shocking a whine out of John, and Bane flattens him to the tiles once more, his cock slippery and insisten at John’s hip.

  


“You are foolish and impetuous,” Bane starts, loosening his hold on John’s cock and speeding up, like his anger is racing John’s orgasm to the finish line. “I cannot keep you safe if you do not obey me.”

  


John swears, his fingers digging to Bane’s shoulder as he goes up onto his toes with the force of Bane’s stokes. It’s so fucking good, hot, and wet, and tight, but not so much that he’s going to let slide what Bane is saying.

  


“Foolish and impetuous is what got us here, isn’t it?” he gasps, thrusting up to meet Bane’s hand. “And I’m not exactly a wallflower; I’m a goddamn professional and I could kill you six different ways right now if I wanted to.”

  


Bane groans and his cock pulses precome across John’s stomach, like death threats turn him on or something, so John clings tighter, catches Bane’s earlobe between his teeth and keeps talking.

  


“Asphyxiation, to start,” John says, trailing down to flick his tongue over Bane’s carotid artery. “An elbow to your Adam’s apple would do it. I probably can’t snap any of your major bones, but soft tissue is every man’s weak spot, Venom or not.”

  


Bane’s hips grind into him, but his hand has slowed on John’s cock, like now he wants him to last long enough to finish his list. 

  


John lets one of his hands slide down Bane’s torso, stroking over the dip in his spine. “A strong enough kick to your lower back or coccyx could be fatal. That’s why you wear the brace, isn’t it? It’s been damaged before.”

  


Bane hisses through the mask, his whole body shuddering when John’s hand lands between his legs, tugging gently on his testicles.

  


“Strong, focused pain caused by a blow or severe twisting,” John jerks his hand a quarter of an inch, but all Bane does is rumble, his cock jumping in reaction. “Can cause shock and, in extreme cased, lead to death.”

  


John’s hand skips upward, fluttering over the steele strength of Bane’s core. “Evisceration. A jagged piece of the mirror, or more favourably, the straight razor by the sink would have your intestines at your feet in seconds.” 

  


Bane’s hand speeds up, working John from the base of his cock, all the way to the tip, where he rubs over the head, the callous on his thumb rough and perfect on the ridge until John is shaking, rushing closer and closer to the end. He scratches his nails over Bane’s chest, copping a feel of those ample pecks on his way to wrapping his hand around Bane’s throat.

  


“The razor would make slitting your throat child’s play. You’d bleed out on the tiles in under three minutes,” John whines, curling his fingers into the thickness of Bane’s neck as he pants. His dick feels like it’s on fire from the inside out, and his back is starting to ache is the best way from trying to somehow make his entire body fit into Bane’s hand.

  


“That is only five,” Bane teases, his fingers intent on ripping John’s orgasm out by force.

  


“Your mask,”John gasps as he comes, thick white ropes shooting high enough to coat Bane’s nipple and skid down to his belly. “Fuck, Jesus, your mask!”

  


Bane rumbles his approval, working John through the biggest climax of his goddamn life like it’s a reward for John’s inventiveness. Bane doesn’t stop when John does, he simply cups John’s spent cock, massaging it carefully as John pants and generally makes a fool of himself in his afterglow. 

  


Bane’s chest is broad and the valley between the swell of his pectorals is perfect for John to rest because it’s warm and still, save for the reliable soundtrack of Bane’s heartbeat. Bane’s cock is still between them, and a part of John thinks this could be his last day on earth, because no other morning has gone this well, and the universe has a way of balancing him back to zero quicker than a stolen Buggati on an empty freeway.

  


When Bane doesn’t push him away or ask him to reciprocate, John decides it’s his turn to play. He hasn’t fully caught his breath yet, to when he falls to his knees and tries to take Bane all in on his way, he doesn’t fully appreciate the way the man’s cock instantly overwhelms and chokes him. But John will try anything twice, so he wraps one hand around the base and focuses on giving the best damn blowjob possible when the recipient is almost as wide as your forearm and you’re only working on a dozen or so brain cells.

  


Truthfully, he doesn’t remember much of it between the gasping for air and the intoxicating taste of Bane on his tongue, but Bane makes noises John didn’t think were possible, and when he pulls out to come on John’s face and neck, it’s with a long, low grumble and a satisfying grip on John’s hair.

  


Bane hauls John up by his armpits when he’s done, cradling John to him and speaking quiet words in a language John doesn’t understand. He may be tired, spent, and on the wrong side of his undercover detail, but when John hears a word he does recognize, a word he knows very well from three years living next to his Palestinian neighbours in a building with paper-thin walls, he finally questions if he’s in too deep. 

  
Of all the names Bane has called him, Robin, little bird, detective, this one carries the most weight. This one is the most dangerous. This one is  _ habibi _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good, right? These boys and their tendency to lead my writing astray!


End file.
